


Lovestruck

by iammisscullen



Category: One Direction
Genre: AU, Coffee Shop Setting, DJ Zayn, M/M, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/pseuds/iammisscullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn's a DJ in Radio 1 and he tries to serenade some unknown Bandana Man with songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovestruck

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happened when I was listening to The Vamps' LOVESTRUCK.  
> This may be rubbish but this is self-indulgent TBH. This was supposed to be only 500 or so words but hey, I'm just bollocks at those. And the setting is in London, I can't really fathom where because I'm fucked up.  
> Enjoy anyways.
> 
> P.S.  
> As always thank you to my amazing beta (who is not even in this fandom) slytherakin!

 

_I have an entire forest_

_living inside me_

_and you have carved_

_your initials_

_into every tree._

-Pavana

 

Zayn loves his job; not because the pay is big – that’s one of the perks but it’s not it – but because for a slightly introvert like him, it’s a good deal. He may not be as popular as Nick Grimshaw but he loves doing his job as a DJ in BBC Radio 1. He’s on from 1 in the afternoon till 6 in the evening.

He’s never done interviews like Grimmy does in _The Breakfast Show_ but spends more of his time playing singles, songs, or sometimes mixes. And Zayn loves it, so much. It’s perfect for him. He doesn’t wake up early and goes home just in time for dinner.

His late mornings are spent on a café near the studio reading whatever book he feels at the moment. He stays at the same spot every time – at the far end of the shop, looking outside the busy street through the glass walls – because he’s a man of habit. And as usual, he arrives at around 11:15 and orders his Green Tea Frappe and chicken sandwich.

Sarah, the kind girl behind the till who knows Zayn, flashes him a smile as he gets his orders. He smiles back at her and heads to his table.

Unfortunately, his table is taken which takes him by surprise because that never happened before. Only patrons come to this place and most of them have their own tables. Suddenly, it’s fifth grade all over again and Zayn wants to come over to _his_ table and tell the bloke to piss off because it’s _his_ table.

He walks over to _his_ table to give the unknown stranger – who is turned away from the counter, back on Zayn’s direction – a piece of his mind. If the stranger says that it can’t be Zayn’s table because his name isn’t on it, Zayn will probably tell the lad to fuck off or else Zayn will write _ZAYN_ on the table using the man’s blood. Not that he will ever be violent; he just pretends that he’s badass.

Well, with his leather jacket and the poking tattoos from his skin is message enough that one must not mess with Zayn Malik. But he has to face that he’s not as menacing as he thinks he is.

So, when Zayn passes by the bloke’s table he hears him singing quietly to Kings of Leon’s _Use Somebody_. He pauses for a second or two, tosavour the stranger’s low and deep voice that send chills down Zayn’s back. He has a lovely voice.

Zayn sits to the table next to the Table Stealer, facing the counter so he can catch a glimpse of this innocent-for-his-crime bloke who stole his table, messed up his schedule. It’s such a cliché because Zayn’s breath get stuck in his throat and the whole world stops spinning. Everything is suddenly nothing but a blur; everything is, except this beautiful stranger on the next table who is still singing along to Kings of Leon. It’s as if the sun shining or the blue sky holds of no importance to Zayn anymore, not when there’s that gorgeous man so close to Zayn that he can feel his presence even when he’s a few feet away.

All he wants is to look at this man with disarrayed curls held back by a bandana with bananas printed on it, big green eyes, plum lips, pale skin in floral shirt – 3 buttons down – and dark skinny jeans. He completely forgets about _My Sister’s Keeper_ book that he’s planning to read because every cell in his body focuses on the man scribbling things into his moleskin, unknown to the things happening around like Zayn’s gaze on him.

Zayn takes out his sketch pad and pen from his messenger bag because he suddenly feels like drawing. His hand moves into its own accord as he scrawling lines and curves into his paper, glancing once in a while on Bandana Man – he has decided it’s the best nickname.

**

When Zayn arrives at the booth to replace Nina, he searches the studios copy of songs and finds _Use Somebody_ by Kings of Leon. He puts on his work headphones.

‘How are you lots doing?’ he asks his listeners. ‘This is your DJ Malik speaking. I hope you’re all doing great because I just had a fantastic morning. And because of that I would like to dedicate this first song to that fit bloke with ridiculous bandana.’ The clicks the song in his computer. ‘I wish you lots enjoy it as well.’

And the song begins to envelop him like a lullaby.

**

It’s 11:15, the usual time that Zayn goes to the little café. His eyes immediately darts to his table as he heads to the till. Bandana Man is there again, it puts a smile on Zayn’s face – one that he wasn’t able to stop.

He orders the usual and goes to the seat he took yesterday since Bandana Man seems to be cosy sitting in Zayn’s table. He walks slowly this time, curious what the bloke is listening to today. Bandana Man isn’t singing along to – what Zayn can decipher as to be OllyMurs _One of These Days_ – the music but he’s definitely swaying his head and body slowly to the tune.

Zayn smiles to himself, amuse at how carefree Bandana Man is. He’ll be caught dead first before trying to get lost in the rhythm of music at a public place. But that’s just Zayn, and Bandana Man is different – he’s an energy that no cage can contain. Zayn wants to hold that energy in his hands, feel it in his palms and radiate it on his body so he’ll glow as well.

**

He puts on his work headphones and prepares to play _One of These Days_.

‘Hello, everyone,’ he says. ‘DJ Malik here.Waz up?’ He smiles. ‘Are you feeling my vibe? Let’s go slow for a bit, yeah?

‘Bandana Man, this is for you,’ he says. ‘I hope you find the person that’s going to fill in the rooms of your empty heart, make you feel that you can touch the sky and fly. I hope you find him or her, so you don’t have to be alone anymore, eating your carrot muffin.’

He plays Olly’s _One of These Days_.

**

The next day is the same old scene. Zayn walks slowly to Bandana Man and eavesdrops for the music the bloke is listening to. He hears Demi Lovato’s soothing voice over the man’s headphones, sweetly pouring her soul out to _Nightingale_.

Zayn goes to sit by his new table. He notices the red bandana with black coloured skulls on the man’s hair. He smiles and sketches some more of green eyes and tangled curls.

He plays it that afternoon as his first song. As he listens to it, he recalls everything he has learned about Bandana Man: he likes carrot muffins, he drinks cold green tea, he writes (of God knows what), he reads (last times he has an Alice Kuiper book next to his muffin), he loves to button down his polos, he likes bandanas (weird ones at that), he can sing (has a really nice voice, actually), he has long pale fingers (a big hand actually that drives Zayn mad).

‘That song was for Bandana Man who scribbles on his moleskin,’ he says after playing _Nightingale_. ‘I really don’t know what you write but I hope it’s poetry or a story of your fantasised happily-ever-after. Maybe you could show them to the world someday. I’m sure people will love to hear and read what you have written, yeah? I know, I would.’

**

It’s Friday and Zayn’s scared of the weekend. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want the weekend to come. What if on Monday he won’t see Bandana Man again? What if Bandana Man still hangs out by the café on weekends and then suddenly sees another attractive person and marries him or her immediately? There’s just so many What Ifs.

He needs to ask the bloke out that day. He needs to or else he’ll regret it.

He prepares a speech. It starts with a _Hello_ and should end with a _Can I have your number?_ or _Can we hang out this weekend?_ And as he walks to Bandana Man’s table, he hears him singing quietly along to Cher Lloyd’s _With ‘Ur Love_.

Zayn smiles when the man sings the wrong lyrics.

He knows it’s his chance but then he doesn’t have the courage to tap the man’s shoulder and introduce himself. So instead, he goes to his usual sit and does what he knows he’s good at: stares and observe; and prays that he’ll have another chance next week till he finds his guts to ask Bandana Man on a date.

And like always, he leaves before the other man does. He goes to work and before he plays _With ‘Ur Love_ he says, ‘Here’s to Bandana Man who got the lyrics wrong.’ He adds, ‘It’s actually _So I was thinking I was bulletproof_. It’s cool though. Keep singing you heart out. Cheers.’

**

After his shift, Jessie immediately goes to him.

‘What’s with all the Bandana Man?’ she asks, nudging Zayn by the hip as he puts his earphones into his messenger bag. ‘Is he like your secret boyfriend or something?’

‘It’s just a crush,’ he answers and smiles shyly, blushing a bit because he sounds like a lovesick 13 years old with his song dedication. It’s not like Bandana Man will be listening because not everyone loves hearing the radio.

Everybody knows already that Zayn is bisexual. But this has to be the first that he’s acting all sappy for anyone. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this, and for someone he doesn’t even completely know.

There are always firsts, then.

**

Zayn visits home, which is Bradford, for the weekend just to get his mind off Bandana Man because he can’t let this crush go further. It’s illogical to fall for someone you meet randomly, it’s not normal at all. And he doesn’t see himself trying to talk to the man either, because he’ll probably stutter and embarrass himself. So, he might as well not.

He’s only cooler behind his DJ booth where no one can see his face and he can pretend that he’s only talking to Danny or Ant.

Monday comes and Zayn’s having thoughts of not going to the café because what if Bandana Man isn’t there. What will he do? His heart is already a weeping mess at the thought of not being able to see the bloke like he used too.

It took about 30 minutes for Zayn to convince himself that he needs this over with so he can move on. And when he enters the café, his heart sinks and drowns itself in snots and tears because Bandana Man is no where to be found.

With a sobbing heart to comfort, Zayn orders his usual and takes back his old table. He seats down to his old table, but the opposite chair to where Bandana Man usually perches. He stares at the empty chair and thinks how stupid he was for being a coward.

He’s looking at his Green Tea Frappe and chicken sandwich when a shadow looms over him. He looks up and was greeted by: deep dimples, green eyes, white bandana.

‘Hi.’ His voice is deep and rich.

‘Hi.’

‘Can I sit down?’ he asks, pointing at the empty chair across Zayn.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn answers. He looks around as Bandana Man settles himself and his food. He notices that there are still empty tables around the café so it’s weird that the man wants the table that Zayn occupies.

‘I’m sorry for intruding,’ he says, perceiving what Zayn has in mind. ‘I just like this one better because it has great view and it’s a bit away from everyone else.’ He smiles apologetically, showing his set of dimples.

‘S’okay,’ Zayn assures and smiles back. He awkwardly takes a bite of his sandwich.

His recovered heart tells him that now is the perfect time to start a conversation with Bandana Man.

‘I’m Harry, by the way,’ he says, offering Zayn another smile.

He swallows what he’s chewing. ‘Zayn.’

‘Cool name,’ he comments and takes his moleskin out of his black rucksack.

‘Thanks.’ He lamely plays with the end of his napkin while Harry sets his side of the table.

‘You can just pretend I’m not here, I don’t mind,’ he says, taking out his headphones. ‘I promise you, you won’t even notice my existence.’

 _I already did. 7 days ago and I still do. And I can’t stop myself even if I wanted to_ , Zayn wants to tell Harry. He badly wants to taste Harry’s name in his tongue; wants it to sound special like the fox and The Little Prince in the book by Antoine de Saint-Exupẻry.

Harry writes something in his moleskin.

‘Are you a writer?’ he asks, curiosity getting the best of him.

Bandana Man – Harry – looks up. ‘A lyricist,’ he answers, sipping from his straw.

Zayn nods. ‘What company do you work for?’

‘Syco Records.’

‘Cool.’

‘What about you, Zayn?’

God! The sound of his name in Harry’s mouth is magical, like it’s poetry.

‘What do you do for a living?’

Zayn wants to lie, wants to say something else because maybe Harry will be able to fit the puzzle together. What if all those sappy dedication he did live on the air was actually heard by Harry? And if Zayn says he’s a DJ then Harry will know. But there’s a big possibility that Harry doesn’t listen to radios.

A possibility is a possibility, nonetheless.

‘A radio DJ,’ he answers.

‘What station?’

‘Radio 1.’

‘Do you know DJ Malik?’

Zayn can never fake a poker face. He can’t. So when his face scrunches up in discomfort, Harry may not be Sherlock Holmes but he can tell from Zayn’s expression that there’s something off.

‘Are you DJ Malik?’ Harry inquires, eyes all wide.

 _Now is the right time to swallow me whole Mother Earth_ , Zayn thinks as he sweats and stare back at Harry nervously.

There must have been some answer in Zayn’s eyes that Harry finds because the man smiles and says, ‘It’s cool, mate.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He looks away. ‘It must have been weird on your part.’

‘I find it sweet and endearing, to be honest.’

 _Sweet_ and _endearing_? Is Harry one of those types who like Stockholm Syndrome? But Zayn won’t complain because he’s the creep here.

‘I did mess up on the Cher Lloyd song.’ He laughs, bright and beautiful. Zayn wants to kiss him or give him the key of the universe so Harry will keep that happiness in his face, which somehow tugs at Zayn’s heartstring.

‘So… uhm…’ He should probably think of a casual way to ask Harry out. He doesn’t even know if Harry likes boys or girls. If Harry has a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

‘I have a cat,’ Harry says, closing his moleskin. ‘I love my cat,’ he adds. He laughs again, probably because of Zayn’s taken aback expression that is borderline confuse. ‘And I would love to have tea with you again tomorrow.’ Another sweet smile.

Zayn just stares, like a fish. Lost for words and lost in translation. It’s unbelievable and surreal and every other synonym words to unreal.

‘11:15 right?’ Harry asks, pushing a tore paper towards Zayn. ‘Maybe you can play The Wanted’s _I Found You_ later.’ He winks and rises up to leave. He leans to Zayn and whispers to the man’s ear, ‘It’s nice to finally meet you, DJ Malik. Call me, yeah?’ Zayn can hear the smile on his voice. Harry pulls back and gathers his things and leaves.

He’s frozen to be able to find a witty remark; unable to grasp that Harry may have also been creeping on him. It’s not something one should be glad about – being stalked or something – but Zayn feels the opposite of weird out otherwise. There’s comfort and giddiness at knowing that it isn’t just him who feels something, that Harry feels it too.

He watches Harry leave the café, waving a small goodbye to him. It’s a sweet sorrow kind of parting because he knows that they have tomorrow, and the next day after that (maybe?). And maybe a few more days, or weeks, or months, or years. Zayn can’t tell. For the first time in a long time, Zayn’s happy that there’s no certainty, no schedule he needs to follow. It feels great.

And it’s all because of some cute bloke named, Harry.

He looks at Harry’s scribble on the paper:

 

_Let’s hang out again. :) xoxo_

_02-776-908-235_

 

_Fin._

           

 

           

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! xoxo


End file.
